


Subtext and Context

by cleasugar



Category: NCIS
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 14:00:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6661327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleasugar/pseuds/cleasugar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A character sketch of a character sketch. Set in Season 5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Subtext and Context

Timothy McGee smiled at the barista without really seeing her as he ordered his usual grande black with a shot of espresso. He took the proffered cup, fussed a bit to get the lid securely fitted, and slipped the little cardboard sleeve around to stave off burning his fingers, but also--and this is something Tony would have delighted in pointing out--because the things were there, and served a particular purpose, and therefore were meant to be used. Tim McGee was the kind of guy who followed directions, met expectations, and if cardboard insulating sleeves were put out on the counter on the assumption that customers would use them, well then Tim would use them. He was obedient by nature.  


“McSimonSays!” He could hear Tony’s voice in his head, poking at him, pushing him. Lately, he’d been channeling his inner DiNozzo more than usual and it was making him irritable and out of sorts.  Tim knew his tendency to try to be the straight A student in any given classroom could set him up for trouble, or at least some teasing.   It was one of the aspects of his personality that could grate when brought into close contact with DiNozzo’s more laissez-faire approach to life and solving a case.   


Lately, though, the friction between them had been worse than usual and McGee didn’t like the sharp edges that had crept into their verbal sparring.  He knew Tony was a good guy, knew he was a great investigator. But ever since it had come to light that DiNozzo had been working undercover on a case targeting a high-profile arms dealer--by seducing the man’s daughter, no less--Tim McGee had been questioning everything he knew about the man. And their friendship. Their working relationship.  He found a seat at one of the tables towards the back, and glared morosely at the leftover Halloween decorations that had been forgotten in this little corner of the shop.  


“What did that paper bat ever do to you?”  


McGee looked up, his smile blooming involuntarily at the warm laughing tone of the voice, and stood to grasp the outstretched hand of Lydia Westenphal that wasn’t holding her own cup of coffee.  She gave his hand a squeeze and fitted herself into the chair opposite him at the little table. “How’s the muse, Tim?” she asked. “You look a little grim.”  


“I think my muse has decided to go stay a few days with her parents,” McGee said dryly. “She didn’t even leave any leftovers in the fridge.”  


Lydia had been part of an ad hoc writer’s group Tim had joined in the early days when he was working on _Deep Six_. The group hadn’t lasted. Like most of its ilk, the beginner’s enthusiasm of its members had gradually dissipated as one by one each budding writer had lost the interest, or the drive, or come to the unwelcome realization that writing was hard work. And writing well--really hard work.  Tim’s determination not to fail (being the son of the Admiral was its own motivation) along with a life-long habit of turning in all his schoolwork on time meant that he had kept at it even when others were giving up, and that he came to every meeting with something new.   


So had Lydia, although her drive seemed to come from being challenged, rather than deadlines. She reminded Tim of Abby, a little bit. If Abby wore crystals instead of silver studded dog collars, had long grey hair worn loose instead of jet black hair done in pig tails, and had fine laugh lines around her eyes and mouth instead of black eyeliner and lipstick the color of dried blood.  Tim and Lydia had hit it off, even though they wrote entirely different kinds of things, and he knew _Deep Six_ was the better book for Lydia’s feedback in those first days of revising.  He’d once asked what she could possibly get from him and she hadn’t hesitated a moment. “You tell a great story, Tim.”   


“Uh oh,” Lydia was saying. “That sounds like it’s going to take more than a bouquet of flowers to smooth things over.” McGee shrugged unhappily. He’d stopped publishing after the last fiasco with his forthcoming book had affected his job and endangered his team mates. But he hadn’t stopped writing. He loved writing like Dinozzo loved movies. The truth was, he hadn’t been able to write anything he liked for weeks…in fact, since it had come out about Tony’s undercover mission.  He was having a hard time telling what was good and what wasn’t. What sounded real and what didn’t.  Irrationally, he blamed Dinozzo for this. But his muse, it seems, didn’t have time for that kind of nonsense. She’d pack up and left with the creative equivalent of a note on the fridge; “We need space from each other.” God. He was even writing himself Dear John letters on behalf of his pen name.  


“Tim? Tim!” Lydia snapped her fingers in front of his face, making him start. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s been a rough couple of weeks. Halloween this year just really sucked.”  


“Talk to me,” she said.  


In faltering language, he tried to do so.  For security reasons McGee never told anyone where he worked or what he did, but Lydia knew he was in law enforcement.  “I found out that one of the people I work with has been lying to everyone about…well, some pretty big stuff.  It was part of an assignment, “ he hastened to add, not wanting her to get the wrong impression, “he had to do it.  But…,” Tim paused, wondering how to explain it all. “…he was really good at it. The assignment had been going on for a really long time, and no one knew. None of us had a clue.”  


Lydia’s gaze on him was steady and clear, her head tilted slightly in her “listening” pose.  Tim appreciated the value of her undivided attention. “When it finally all came out, we were all shocked. He’d been living this double life for months and months and he was so good at it no one ever suspected a thing. I mean--he fooled some hard-to-fool people. People who are observant by nature, you know. He deserves an Oscar.”  


Tim took a sip of his now lukewarm coffee.  “The problem is, now I can’t seem to tell what’s real and what isn’t. Not with this guy--who is supposed to be a friend and a partner--and not with my writing. Everything he says to me sounds like a story.”  


You mean you don’t trust him anymore? Lydia asked. I don’t trust myself, Tim answered.  He flicked a packet of sugar at the unfortunate paper bat, which shook under McGee’s good aim, but didn’t fall. Lydia followed the motion and then said, “So what happened on Halloween?” Another story,” said Tim, thinking back to the last time he and Dinozzo had worked a Halloween case together. 

> _The last time I did Halloween I was an astronaut. The neighborhood I grew up in…well, it wasn’t really a neighborhood. There were these estates with mansions smack dab in the middle of them, and really long driveways…it was a lot of walking. God my feet were tired. Dogs were barking._  
>    
>  I gotta imagine it really sucks growing up rich like that.  
>    
>  _My costume was fantastic, though. Wicked awesome. I was a Spaceman…no ventilation though, I was sweating like Roger Federer after a five set tiebreaker. And stinky…stinky like a cheese._  
>    
>  _But man what a haul! When I got home my old man made me throw way all of it…even the apples._  
>    
>  I’m sure he was just worried about your teeth.  
>  _  
> Oh no. I made my costume out of one of his $3000 designer ski suits._  
> 

Tim finished telling the story of Tony’s story about his favorite Halloween, aware once again of his mounting frustration with the whole situation. Real? Embellishment? Totally made up? If it was totally made up, what was the point? If it was real, what was the big deal? He looked at Lydia, waiting for her response.  


“That’s just about the saddest fucking story I’ve ever heard,” she said. “Can I steal it for my novel?”

….

This time when McGee placed his order for coffee, his smile at the barista was genuine, and he looked straight at her as he ordered refills for himself and for Lydia, along with a couple pieces of pumpkin cake from the front case and some of the peanut butter cookies one of the kitchen staff had just brought out to fill the empty spaces. They were the café’s homemade version of Nutter Butters, and Tim was addicted. Emotional discussions made him hungry. So did puzzles.  His issues with Tony seemed to be a little bit of both.  


You know, he said as he carefully set down the laden tray in the small bit of clear space on the table, when I heard that story it was before it all came out about the undercover assignment, and I thought he was just bragging. Rich kid gets to trick or treat in fancy neighborhood and gets tons of candy.  After, though, I started second guessing him. Like maybe he was just making it all up the way he’d made up this person he’d been pretending to be for the last six months.  


Lydia made a thoughtful humming noise. Why is this coming up now? She asked. Halloween was ages ago.

“A bad case,” he answered, thinking about ghost ships and meningitis scares and vomit and rats and a panicking Dinozzo who would not. shut. up. for almost the entire mission. “This guy, he says he hates Halloween. Says weird things happen. He likes to tell funny stories to annoy us all--get rid of some of the tension, you know? But half the time I think he’s just trying to get us to laugh, and half the time I feel like he’s giving us all a test that we’re failing.” McGee frowned at his pumpkin cake.  “Tell me why a rich kid not getting to binge on his overloaded bag of Halloween candy is a sad story.”  


Lydia took a sip from her coffee, considering his glum face over the top of her cup. “You’re really good at your job, Tim,” she said, making him look up at her. “Some kind of investigator or detective, right?” Tim shrugged. “I know you must be good at it – at telling the difference between truth and lies – because it comes through in your writing. I know you think of yourself as a thriller writer, more about action and plot than characterization, but your characters are always distinct, plausible. Their motivations are believable. You’re good at that – at knowing what would drive a character to do something. You’re good at motivation.”  


Tim waited patiently through her assessment – it wasn’t anything they hadn’t already said to each other in a dozen critique sessions over the past couple years. He’d long since gotten past the preening stage when a writer he respected praised his own work. And he’d worked with Lydia long enough now to know that the real gold in what she had to say was yet to come.  


“But you tend to focus on what is being said, or what is being done. It’s a struggle for you to remember that what isn’t being said is just as important.” Tim sighed. This was a constant topic between them, the idea that characterization depends as much on what you don’t write as what you do write. Tim had never fully grasped how to say something by not saying it, but Lydia was a master at it – her last story collection had been shortlisted for the National Book Award and she was a regular in the Best Short Stories collections that came out every year. In fact, she struggled to work in a longer format. She’d been working on a novel for several years now and Tim’s facility with pacing and plot had helped her become more comfortable with the slower build, reigning in her impulse to deliver an emotional punch on every other page. In turn, Lydia had helped Tim understand how to give his characters real depth and originality, so that they no longer truly resembled their real-life inspirations. “Agent Tommy,” especially, had transformed under her critical eye from a womanizing prankster into a complicated person whose sense of duty seemed to always be at odds with his longing for love and family. Maybe not so different from DiNozzo after all, Tim thought, remembering the look on his partner’s face as he told an angry Jeanne Benoit that their romance had been a sham, just a cover.  


“I think,” said Lydia, her voice dragging him back from his introspection, “you should think about that Halloween story he told you as if it were something you wrote.” Tim looked back at her, interested. “Pretend you just turned it over to the writing group for feedback,” she went on. “What would everyone say about the little boy in the story?”  


“That he’s stubborn,” said Tim with a little laugh. “And headstrong, and doesn’t always think about the consequences of his actions.”  Lydia smiled. “Also, he’s creative,” she offered. “He made himself a costume. A spaceman costume. He’s adventurous.”  


Something stirred at the back of Tim’s mind, making him pause. “he made himself a costume,” Tim repeated thoughtfully. “He didn’t buy one, and his parents didn’t buy him one.” Sure, some people liked to encourage their kids to make their own costumes – Penny had always helped him come up with a cool costume every Halloween, she had taken an active interest in encouraging anything creative in him that the Admiral didn’t approve of. But Tony had made his costume himself, out of an expensive ski suit. Apparently no one had been around to help him, take an interest, or even notice that he was cutting up good clothes because he wanted to be a spaceman.  


Lydia nodded. “And he’s brave, and persistent, and maybe has a habit of getting into trouble,” she said. “He goes trick or treating in a neighborhood with big houses that have long driveways, (“and dogs,” thought Tim, “ _dogs were barking_.”). The houses are far apart, and he gets tired, but he keeps going because he loves being a spaceman, and he manages to bring home a big bag full of candy. So what is missing from that picture?”  


Tim already knew what she was getting at. “Other kids. Any adult to watch him.” Who goes trick or treating without other kids and a parent? “I think he was out there all on his own.” Suddenly, Tony’s Halloween story didn’t sound like bragging at all. It sounded like the story of a lonely kid whose parents weren’t paying attention to him, who had to make his own fun. Tim remembered the bright-eyed look in Tony’s eye has he barreled past Tim’s annoyed “shut up” signals and talked about his favorite Halloween. It had been a happy memory – a very happy memory. Even though it has ended with his dad taking away all his candy ( _even the apples_ ) and . . . something squirmed in Tim’s gut . . . he was given a spanking so bad he “ _….couldn’t sit down until Christmas_.”   


“Crap,” said Tim to his empty coffee cup. “Sad,” said Lydia.  


“Okay,” Tim thought as he drove home from the coffee shop, “you can do this. DiNozzo is a storyteller. So listen to his stories like a writer would. You’re not lie detector, but you know what goes into a good story.” It gave him a sense of peace, of being grounded, a feeling he had been missing while his otherwise nervous and hyper-analytical disposition was second-guessing everything his partner said and did. Tim felt his self-confidence creeping back, and by the time he got back to his apartment, he had already come up with the outline of a scene for Amy Sutton and her roller derby team in a Save the Whales protest. It had absolutely no place in the story he was writing but it was too good not to get down on paper.  


One Year Later  


Tim walked into the bullpen coffee in hand, and stopped to stare. Dinozzo was already at his desk -- not unusual, Tim knew he was a night owl and it wasn’t unheard of for Tony to come in at 3 am and work on the cold cases that were bugging him. But what was unusual was that Tony was leaning back in his chair, reading. A book. _The Wisdom of Small Things_ by Lydia Westenphal, just released and already on everyone’s short list for all the book prizes.  


Lydia had sent Tim an advance copy months ago, but he hadn’t opened it yet. It has been a rough year for the team and Tim hadn’t really been able to give her new novel the attention he knew it would deserve. Director Shepherd’s death and the breakup of the unit, Tony and Ziva and Tim himself banished to the far flung corners of NCIS. Then returning only to have to root out a traitor who had insinuated themselves into their midst and killed an agent. Tony, Tim knew, had taken the whole debacle especially hard, feeling betrayed on all sides and as furious as Tim had ever seen him get with Gibbs, whom he normally kept high up on a pedestal. But it had been a hard time for all of them. Tim and Tony’s friendship was only just getting back on an even keel when he’d been sent to the basement and Tony sent to the middle of the ocean.  


Still, it was a shock to see Lydia’s name on the cover of the book in Tony’s hands. “Isn’t that a little highbrow for your usual tastes?” he asked as he set his backpack down by his desk.  Tony waved at him without looking up from the page. “Nah, I love Lydia Westenphal.”  


“Really?” said Tim, unable to hide the surprise in his voice. Tony looked up at that. “There were exactly 358 books in the library on the USS Ronald Reagan,” he said with a grimace. “Believe me, I read every one of them. Hers were the best of the lot.” Tony dog eared the page he was on (Tim cringed internally), and set the book down. “Did you know some of her stories were adapted for film?” he went on, giving Tim an oddly intense stare. “’Far and Near’ took second place at Sundance two years ago.”  


Tim did know, but couldn’t say so. “How’s the new one?” he asked as he booted up his system and checked his email.  


“Weirdly familiar” said Tony, still staring at him.  


Tim put on his blank “what are you talking about?” face, which probably didn’t fool Tony for a second.  


“I think she’s just one of those writers that makes you identify with her characters. There’s a story about a little girl making her own Halloween costume that could have come right out of my life.”  


Tim stared resolutely at all the junk email he had received.  


“Tim.” said Tony. Tim glanced over at him. “It’s fine.” Tony said, “I get it.”  


“What do you mean?” said Tim, wanting this conversation over and the air cleared. For all he loved to write, Tim didn’t do well with subtext in real life.  


“Everyone needs a sounding board,” said Tony. “I’m guessing Lydia Westenphal is a writer-buddy of yours – you lucky dog -- and you told her a story that she ended up using in her book. It’s not a big deal.”  


“She helped me understand some stuff about what was going on with us last year,” said Tim honestly, “It never occurred to me that you might read it. Sorry.”  


Tony grinned. “Wasn’t Nina Bawden who said ‘All writers are thieves; theft is a necessary tool of the trade.’? It’s part of the hazard of being friends with a writer – you might get your life made into art. I’m not complaining. She’s a great writer.”  


Tim smiled, relieved. “She has a nose for good material,” he offered. Tony laughed, then his expression went serious and he suddenly started looking very busy at his desk. Tim took the cue and did the same as Gibbs stalked into the bullpen, looking like he was on a mission. But Tim couldn’t help the small smile that settled on his face as he started looking into the indiscretions of the latest petty officer to attract their interest in their current case. “Good material.” Tim guessed that there were worse things to be.


End file.
